


the man behind the music

by godmolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Fluff, Gay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 14:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godmolly/pseuds/godmolly
Summary: An across-the-street neighbor AU, in which John listens to the beautiful violin the man across the street plays.tumblr





	the man behind the music

John looked over the street again.

Here he was, sitting in his armchair facing the window of his apartment, 321B Baker Street, watching the man in the apartment directly across from his own dance around his own living room playing the violin.

Both of their windows were thrown wide open, the man’s most likely to tempt a breeze, John’s to hear the man’s music. **  
**

 

John didn’t even know the man’s name, but it was definitely safe to say that he was enchanted. Short glances that turned into stares offered John a mediocre view of the man’s head of dark curly hair and sharp-looking face.

He seemed to play the violin day and night, for hours at a time.

It was entrancing, and John found himself several nights a week falling asleep or waking to the peaceful melodies making their way out of the man’s living room window.

Some days, John wouldn’t even realize how tense he was until he opened his window; until he was reminded of the man’s comforting and constant, albeit distant, presence and his muscles melted back into his armchair.

The music was some he’d never heard before, and it reminded him of sipping his favorite tea with the sun just peeking out from behind the silver clouds. It was before Afghanistan …

It helped with the nightmares, too.

Gave him something to hear besides the rush of his own heartbeat.

And it wasn’t until his therapist asked about those nightmares, and he’d replied about them getting more and more infrequent.

She’d asked why.

Why _were_ they dying down, plaguing him less and less?

Well, nothing had changed, except … _except_ the man was always there to calm John down, even if he didn’t know it.

His therapist, with a smile filled with relief at the news, suggested he try to talk with the man, build a relationship with him.

 

Maybe that was what inspired John to be standing outside of this man’s door. It was pretty late, meaning the street behind him was empty, at least by London standards. He’d started slow, with just a pink Post-it note in his hand.

_Was he really doing this?_

Yes, it transpired, as John’s hand moved forward to stick the note on the door.

 _A request: The Lark Ascending,_ it read it a messy blue ink. And in a smaller print on the back of the note was John’s phone number.

He clicked the knocker once, then started back across the street. Awkward conversations about why he was sticking Post-it notes to someone’s door instead of talking to them were not his forte.

The man might not have even been home, as all the windows were shut and curtains drawn. Or maybe he didn’t answer the door, or just didn’t reply to strange sticky note song requests.

There were a thousand reasons why John’s attempts at contact were ignored, and his mind went through every one of them in detail.

 

However, it was put to ease the second a curtain shifted over in 221B Baker Street, and the windows flung open to reveal the man, in the normal crisp suit and dark curls and handsome face.

John tried his best to watch indiscreetly, but probably ended up outright staring. Oh well.

The man seemed to look down to reference something, then lift his bow and violin to his chin in their impeccable position, and began to play.

John couldn’t contain his smile.

It was The Lark Ascending.

And it sounded so beautiful, tearing through the air between their homes and resonating through John’s bones. The man had a sort of loping grace about him; while playing he would twirl around and walk over the furniture, as if he just couldn’t stay still.

John was the complete opposite, with moving capabilities hindered by the always stunning elegancy of the notes. (He didn’t think the novelty of hearing this man play would ever truly wear off, even if people do get used to beauty.)

When the man lowered his bow for the final time, John stood up from his chair and started clapping.

The man turned around, startled, at the noise.

He seemed even more startled by the prospect of actually receiving praise, which was absolutely ridiculous. His usually deadpan face broke into a smile that looked like it hadn’t quite been broken in yet, and John’s heart swelled.

 

When the man finally walked away, John walked into the kitchen and made his favorite tea, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

John sat back down in his armchair, and checked his phone.

_One new message._

He checked it. Unknown number. But somehow he knew who it was.

_Coffee? -SH_

~Lucinda


End file.
